In Diamond Light
by Ivytree
Summary: How does Spike get from "B" to "A"? What does Buffy ask of Angel? Where does Buffy go from here? What does the A.I. team think of Spike? COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

Title: In Diamond Light  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: How does Spike get from "B" to "A"?  
  
Setting: Almost immediately after "Chosen."  
  
A/N: The poem will be at the very end.  
  
Part One  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Buffy crouched and scrabbled in the debris, breathing hard. Her scratched and bruised fingers stung, and darn it, there went another fingernail!   
  
Faith stood behind her, holding a flashlight. "Look, B," she said, in a humor-the-patient tone of voice, "you sure we should be doing this? He--well, the guy made his choice. He knew what he was doing. Don't you want to ask Giles about it, at least? I know they had issues, but…"  
  
"This has nothing to do with Giles." Buffy sat back on her heels, pushing a wisp of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, and met Faith's dark eyes. "If there's a chance for him--any chance at all--I have to try."   
  
Jolt after jolt of emotion, from horror to desperate sorrow to euphoria, had followed hard on Buffy and her party's escape from the smoking crater that had once been Sunnydale. As dusk fell, the adrenaline abruptly ran out, and they were all suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. The group decided (with hardly any bickering) to head for the next town boasting a hospital, check the wounded in, and crash at the nearest motel. By midnight, gentle, ladylike snores from the girls sounded a pleasant counterpoint to the deeper rumbles emitted by Giles, Xander, and Andrew. Everyone slept, in fact--except the two senior slayers, who had crept out and, at Buffy's insistence, returned to the demolished municipality. Not in the school bus, however; that would attract too much attention. Luckily, law and order had not quite returned to California, what with one thing and another, and Faith could still hotwire a car. Their trip was speedy and uneventful (Faith could drive, too), and, being endowed with super-strength, they clambered down the steep face of the crater without much difficulty.  
  
"You're taking a heck of a risk," Faith continued, considerately lowering the light so it didn't shine in Buffy's eyes. "Look, I'm just sayin', he never thought he'd come back… He might be just as happy where he is. I mean, that's probably heaven, after what he did, right?"  
  
"But he wasn't finished--he never had a chance to live. He deserves a chance…" Buffy heard her own voice quaver, and looked away. "He never hesitated to take a risk for me. Now I'm going to do whatever it takes for him."  
  
Faith held up her free hand in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I give, if you think it's the right thing. You know better than me about that stuff, I guess."  
  
Buffy turned back to her task, brushing her palms together. Faith seemed awfully mellow, all of a sudden. "I'm SURE it was around here--right near this pillar thingy," Buffy muttered, rising reluctantly to her feet. "The jewel has to be here somewhere. Wait! Faith, hold the flashlight a little higher! Over there! I see it!"  
  
Faith raised the light, and gave a gasp as the blue-white glint of an enormous diamond winked out at them through the rubble and dust.  
  
Dust…   
  
"Come on!" Buffy cried.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"I wish we had something else to, um, put it in," Buffy complained.   
  
"Hey, you said find a box." Faith kept her eyes on the road.  
  
"Sure, but a shoe box?"  
  
"Look, it was handy. I just bought shoes. You didn't tell me why you wanted it, all right? I didn't know it was for an oh-so-precious mystical jewel and, well, stuff."  
  
"You're right." Buffy clutched the box tightly against her chest, and let her head fall against the seat back. "You're doing me a favor, and all I do is carp. Sorry."  
  
Faith frowned. "Hey, B, don't go all Miss Manners on me, okay? That's so not us. Makes me nervous as hell. If we can't be straight with each other after all this time, who CAN we let our hair down with? We're the Old Girls in this sorority now. Carp all you want."  
  
"I guess you're right," Buffy said, with a reluctant grin. "Apology retracted."  
  
"Better. Anyway, I'm always up for a little joyride--long as we get back by eight."  
  
Buffy looked curiously across at her fellow slayer, who shifted in her seat with apparent unease at the scrutiny. In fact, though she couldn't be sure in the darkness, Buffy would have sworn Faith was blushing. "What's at eight?" she asked.  
  
"Visiting hours," Faith replied shortly.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"L.A?" Giles exclaimed. "Now, why? Although," he mused, "it's actually not a bad idea."  
  
"I want to see Angel and, um, thank him for helping out and stuff," Buffy said eagerly. "And Wesley's one of the few remaining Watchers--you want to talk to him, don't you?"  
  
The core of the Sunnydale contingent dotted the room in various postures of boredom, except for Andrew, who had gone to fetch snacks from the motel vending machine. Faith lounged on one of the beds leafing through a fashion magazine. Willow and Kennedy sprawled together on another bed, Xander perched on a rickety-looking armchair, and Dawn sat cross-legged on the floor by the blank-screened television, apparently from simple force of habit.  
  
"Wes is totally hot now, by the way," Faith chimed in. Then, shrugging at their looks, she added, "I'm just sayin.'"  
  
"And Dawn and me can visit our dad…"  
  
"BRIEFLY, okay?" Dawn rolled her eyes. "His new wife sets my TEETH on edge."  
  
"What, the lovely Romola?" Xander teased. "At least she doesn't want you to call her 'mom.' And hey, she'll take you shopping on Rodeo Drive—-I'm betting you oh-so fashion-conscious gals have already exhausted the possibilities of the local Wal-Mart."  
  
"I just KNOW that accent is fake. Last time, she wanted me to get a makeover so I'd fit in with her stupid friends, including bleaching my hair and getting a perm. As if," Dawn snorted.   
  
"Yeah, well, sounds good, B, but the thing is, I wanna hang around here for a while," Faith said, with a sidelong glance.   
  
"Here? Why-—oh, right," Buffy said. "Well, no problem. We don't all need to go. Somebody's got to stay and take care of the girls--and everybody--who are still in the hospital."  
  
"Well, sure, I can do that. Just call me den-mom, or whatever."  
  
"Actually, Buff, I don't think I'll be going along, either," Xander said. "My mom's staying with Aunt Mae in Glenbrook, and I want to see she's okay."  
  
"Your dad… ?" Buffy asked, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"No. She's alone. I'm not sure where he…" Xander looked away.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I think we should go to L.A., hon." Willow turned to Kennedy. "I want to get moving on some research, and no laptop equals no Google. Not to mention no clothes, no money, and no books."  
  
"I can put you guys up," Kennedy offered. "My folks' house number three is in Beverly Hills; we can get clothes and money there. Plenty of room. And internet access, and whatever else we need."  
  
"If there IS any internet access," Giles pointed out. "After all, they've had troubles of their own in L.A. Cable telly isn't up yet, and phone service is still spotty--we don't really know which services have been restored and which haven't."  
  
"Don't say that, Giles," Xander said. "A Google-less Willow is a twitchy Willow. See, she's developing a tic already."  
  
"That's not a tic, she's tickling me!" Willow squealed. "Kennedy! Quit it, or I'll turn you into a--a rat!"  
  
"She can do it, too," Buffy said, watching the two girls giggle and squirm with a tolerant eye. Frankly, she was glad they finally felt free to be silly. It had been a long time. "So look-—the five of us will go ahead, with the slayers who can travel, and the rest of you follow when you can, and we'll all meet up at Kennedy's house, okay? Then we can figure out what to do."  
  
"Sounds like a plan, Generalissima Buffy," Xander said, saluting.  
  
The door opened, and Andrew walked in, his arms filled with crackling bags of wafers, crisps, chips, and doodles. "What?" he said apprehensively, as six pairs of eyes fixed on him. "Did I miss something?"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Good lord," Giles said, surveying the once elegant homes, now wrecked and charred, that lined the broad, exclusive street. He and Buffy sat in the front seat of another "borrowed" car, and Dawn, Willow and Kennedy in the back; by common consent, he drove. Following Kennedy's directions, they had passed scenes of devastation and anarchy as shocking as any war zone. Palm trees, once tall and gracious, lay uprooted, and potholes rutted the pavement. Giles pushed his glasses up his nose. "This is appalling."  
  
"There was this, like, rain of fire," Willow explained, leaning foreword. "Definitely of the very bad. Then total, unrelenting darkness, followed by vamp-y mayhem. But it looks like that was just the beginning."  
  
Kennedy's lips were a thin line. "Our house is a couple of blocks away," she said. "Maybe it's not so bad there."  
  
"It might have missed your house completely," Dawn said encouragingly. "They're not all, you know, burned up. Or burned down."  
  
"Sure," Willow said. "Apocalypses definitely tend to be hit and miss, don't they? And let me tell you, between us, we've seen a lot of 'em. So don't worry. Maybe everything's fine there. Right, Buffy?"  
  
"Hmmm?" Buffy said, startled from an apparent reverie. "Oh, right. What she said." She assumed a hearty air. "You never know with apocalypses. Or is that apocalysi? What do you think, Giles?"  
  
"I hardly think it matters." Giles lowered his voice, and met her eyes with some severity in his own. "And don't think bringing up occult technicalities will serve to distract me from that package you refuse to discuss-—or what you've really brought us here for."  
  
Buffy turned to look out the window, hugging a box wrapped in brown paper to her chest. "It's personal," she said.  
  
TBC 


	2. Chapter Two

Title: In Diamond Light  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?  
  
Setting: After "Chosen."  
  
In Diamond Light  
  
Part Two  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Yo, Lilah," Gunn said, "You're supposed to know everything around here. Where's the big guy?"   
  
The demon, zombie, undead, neo-vamp, or whatever the hell she was now sat perched on the corner of her desk in the former Wolfram and Hart building's inner sanctum. Crossing her legs, she looked him up and down, tossed her hair back, and smiled provocatively.   
  
"I really couldn't say," she purred.  
  
"Yeah, right. I thought he was still in his office lurking –- well, brooding…"  
  
"Don't you mean sulking?" Lilah snapped. "Certain spindly blondes tend to have that effect on him. I can't imagine why."  
  
"…But he's not in there. So what's the deal?"  
  
Wesley appeared in the doorway. His collar was loose, his hair was disheveled and dusty, and his glasses perched halfway down his nose. Evidently, he'd been engrossed in research of some kind, for under one arm he carried an oversized, battered tome bound in red leather.   
  
"I believe," he said, "that Angel's gone back to the Hyperion."  
  
Gunn stared at him. "Why would he do that?"  
  
"Because I told him to," Wesley replied. "We're going, too. All of us." He shot an enigmatic glance at Lilah, who smirked back at him. "Well, all of us who are actually alive, anyway."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"There's someone coming. Someone we should meet."  
  
  
  
"So you're Nostradamus now?" Gunn folded his arms. "You got a crystal ball? Or maybe two?"  
  
"This is not a vision or prophecy," Wes said, his gaze growing distant. "More of a simple prediction. The Lor Liri Codex…"  
  
"Wes, honey bun, you haven't been perusing THAT dreary old piece of lambskin?" Lorne, clad in a particularly handsome lemon-yellow sharkskin suit, entered from the direction of the elevator banks. "You'll go blind from sheer boredom. I mean, heroes come and heroes go, but you're only young once. Why waste it on fourth century cryptography?" He turned to greet Gunn, rubbing his hands. "Boy howdy, Panther Man! So, are we all ready?"  
  
"We're just waiting for…"  
  
Fred burst in, struggling out of her lab coat. "Sorry!" she caroled. "I just got kind of buried in research. This is SO exciting, you all just don't realize--the chemical composition of Fyarl mucous is REMARKABLY similar to…" All at once she seemed to notice the others staring at her with varying degrees of revulsion. Apparently, not everyone was as fascinated by Fyarl mucous as she was. "Oops! Sorry!" she said, with an apologetic smile, adding brightly, "I'm ready. Let's go!"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Buffy stood in the center of the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel, looking around her in some dismay. The place was a startling mess. Tables and chairs were overturned, a chandelier had crashed to the floor and lay in shards, and the door behind the counter hung loose on its hinges. It looked like there had been a riot or something right in this room.  
  
Willow's directions had been explicit; Buffy was sure she'd come to the right place. But why had Angel—-or Cordy, for that matter—-let Angel Investigations' headquarters get into this state? It occurred to her that a lot more must have happened on Angel's watch than she knew. A faint sound struck her ear, and she was instantly alert, her eyes raking the darkness.  
  
"I can't believe you heard that," a familiar voice said. "You are the best. There will never be another one like you."  
  
"You think?" She chuckled. "You might be in for a surprise. Hey, there."  
  
Angel emerged from the shadows, as she knew he would. He'd always been good at skulking. Not like… but she resolutely restrained her thoughts.  
  
"Hey, yourself," he said, with that cool, crooked smile she had once loved so much. "So, Sunnydale survived another apocalypse?"  
  
"Well, not exactly," Buffy replied. "But WE did. At least, most of us. Long story. I see your town's still standing, though."  
  
"Just barely. Most of us got through it, too. Did the pendant help?"  
  
"Yes," she said softly, dropping her eyes. "It did. You could say it saved the day."  
  
Angel moved closer, his footsteps utterly silent. "Good. I'm glad you could use it."  
  
Buffy looked up at that. "No. Not me."  
  
"Really? Then who was your champion?" An unwelcome thought seemed to strike him. "Just tell me it wasn't Xander…"  
  
Buffy couldn't help smiling. "No, not Xander."  
  
"You're being awfully mysterious," Angel complained, looking at her sharply. "And what's in the box?"  
  
She cleared her throat. "That's kind of what I wanted to see you about…"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Maybe we should knock," Fred whispered. "Is someone in there with him already?"  
  
"I don't think so," Gunn said, peering into the shadowed lobby through the cracked glass panel of the main door.  
  
"We can go right in," Wes said confidently. "There's no danger."  
  
Exchanging doubtful looks--Wes was still acting kind of weird, perhaps from overindulgence in rare books--Gunn, Lorne, and Fred pushed open the door together. The lobby was dark and silent, but upon their entrance, the lamp on the coffee table clicked on, casting a pale, yellowish glow against the vaulting gloom.  
  
"Hi, guys," Angel said. As their eyes adjusted to the dim illumination, they saw him sitting in an armchair, with an expression on his face unlike any they'd ever seen, at once apprehensive, disbelieving, and just the slightest bit proud. Oddly, on his knee he carefully balanced a container about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper.  
  
Wes strode forward. "Who was here with you?" he asked sharply. "Have they gone?"  
  
"Gone?" Angel seemed bemused, almost dazed. "Well, yes and no," he answered, "Buffy was here. She left to go shopping, apparently. At least, I think that's what she said."  
  
"The 'Ooomph' Girl herself?" Lorne exclaimed. "That's who it was? Gosh, Wes, couldn't you have researched a little faster? I wanted to meet that little bundle of super-powered feminine pulchritude. In my world, kiddies, she's da blonde bomb-—and I mean that literally."  
  
"Me, too," Fred said. "I ALWAYS wanted to meet her; Cordy told me some things you wouldn't… that is, I've heard so much about her. Well, darn!" She turned a reproachful glare at Wesley.  
  
"So we came all the way back here for nothing?" Gunn said.  
  
"No, I'm sure the time was right--in fact, we're early by several hours. My calculations couldn't have been mistaken…"  
  
"Maybe she's coming back," Fred offered.  
  
"Do you mind if I ask what the flying heck you guys are talking about?" Angel said, rousing himself. "What calculations? Why are you all here, anyway? Wes just suggested that I check the place out."  
  
"Celebrity meet-and-greet, Angel-cakes," Lorne explained. "Wes, here, read it in the stars. If only our resident Harry Potter wanna-be hadn't mistimed the whole she-bang…"  
  
"Yeah, we were all supposed to be here," Gunn added. "You know, another day, another prophecy. Except I guess this one's not. "  
  
Angel ran a hand over his face and hair. "Let me rephrase. Could someone explain IN ENGLISH? I'm kinda tired, what with the recent apocalypse and all. I'm not getting it."  
  
Wes squared his shoulders and straightened his glasses. "The Lor Liri Codex translation is unquestionably accurate," he declared. "We're required to assemble here, together, and someone will join us. Someone important." He bent his head over a yellowed paper he pulled from an inner pocket, triggering a cascade of old-book dust from his hair. "The information about the actual hour of his, her, or its arrival is curiously vague, but I was SURE the timing was accurate… I can't imagine what's gone wrong."   
  
"Well, are you sure we're in the right place, then? I mean, why here?" Fred asked. With an involuntary glance at Gunn, she added, "We've all moved on from, well, everything that happened here, right?"   
  
"Aha!" Wes exclaimed. "That's it—-of course!" He looked up from the parchment, his jaw set. "The Lirin Stone. That's why we're here. We need the Lirin Stone. We must have left it behind when we moved."  
  
"But I don't think we left anything valuable," Fred protested.  
  
"It mightn't look valuable, but it is, very," Wes said. "As I recall, it just seems to be an ordinary piece of gray stone, but…"  
  
Gunn's head whipped around. "Gray stone? Sorta light gray, with a flat side?"  
  
"Yes, that sounds accurate," Wes replied. "I've never seen it, but that's how it's been described."  
  
"Oh, you've seen it, all right!" Gunn strode across the room. The broken door of the weapons cabinet gave a screech as he pulled it from its hinges with one hand. He reached down and brought up a dove gray stone, with a roughly domed top, and a flat bottom. It was apparently not very heavy; he held it up with one hand. "This it?"  
  
Wed blinked. "Yes, I think it is, indeed. Whatever was it doing there? This is a powerful artifact."  
  
"We've been sharpening our swords with it for the past four years." Gunn turned the unadorned rock between his hands. "Worked good, too."  
  
Lorne frowned. "But correct me if I'm wrong, Wes, sweetie, but isn't the Lirin Stone used for rites of transformation? You know the kind of thing--in goes a nasty, grubby caterpillar, out comes a lovely butterfly--or a Zoth demon, with the wrong incantation. But still. And, frankly, if I'd known there were going to be rites, I'd have worn a different outfit." He squinted down his radiantly yellow sleeve. "This is a bit too casual, wouldn't you say?"  
  
Suddenly Angel began to laugh.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter Three

Title: In Diamond Light  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?  
  
Setting: After "Chosen."  
  
In Diamond Light  
  
Part Three  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Fred, Gunn, Wesley, and Lorne exchanged glances of concern. In general, Angel wasn't a big laugher even at the best of times.  
  
"Okay, now I get it," Angel remarked, between chortles. "'Butterfly,' huh? You can't say the Powers haven't got a sense of humor."  
  
"Maybe you're just tired, Angel…" Fred began.  
  
But Angel interrupted her, sitting up with a new air of resolve. "So, Wes, you found a prophecy? Right. And rites of transformation? Fine. Good. Why fight it? Let's just do it, okay?" He scrubbed his face with both hands. "Man, if this works, I KNOW I'll never hear the end of it."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Gunn demanded.   
  
"Wes was right," Angel said, rising and tucking the mysterious box under his arm. "Buffy was right. Wesley was right. Bring the stone, Gunn. I guess we've got some rites to perform, ladies and gentlemen. Downstairs, where we won't be disturbed." He faced them, his expression sardonic. "And then someone WILL be joining us."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Air, balmy and whisper-soft, stirred the hairs along his arms. Beneath his naked feet he felt a moist freshness; he curled his toes, and cool strands of—what?—threaded between them. A green, loam-y smell met his nostrils, pleasantly natural and somehow comforting. His body felt heavy, but relaxed, without a single ache, bruise, or hint of stiffness or fatigue, as though he had just emerged from a sleep sounder than any he had known in years. With mild surprise, he realized that he was sitting down, his bare back against a hard, sturdy seat.   
  
A strange, but at the same time strangely familiar, fluttering, whooshing sound seemed to emanate from quite high over his head, and from directly before him came an odd swishing and gurgling, like—like—he knew what it was like, really. He was sure it would come to him in a minute. Some creature was there with him, too, he was certain; from above came a high-pitched "chee! chee!" and a "pwe-eet! Pwe-eet!" He knew what it was. He'd put a name to it soon.  
  
And to himself. Though that really didn't seem to matter at the moment.  
  
"Qwaah! qwaah!" and "chook, chook" calls sounded from a distance ahead. What WERE those noises? He began to feel exasperated, now, and frowned. Another thing he couldn't comprehend was the darkness. Was he blind? Involuntarily, he put his hands to his face, and chuckled aloud. Right. Not blind, then. His eyes were closed.  
  
All he had to do was look about him, and these mysteries would be solved in an instant. Simple enough. But still he hesitated, and a bead of ice ran down his spine. He felt like the cartoon hunter, who never knew he'd run right off a cliff until he looked down (but—when, and where, had he seen a cartoon hunter?).   
  
And—what if IT were there?  
  
In fact, he was sure it was there, waiting for him. What he wanted to know was why it hadn't affected him so far. Had he changed—or had the rules of the universe? Did he dare look?  
  
Well, sod that, he wasn't going to sit here cringing, or crawl off to hide until it went away again. Not anymore. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and blinked away the sudden sting of tears against a blazing, unfamiliar golden light.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"I guess this is as good a place as any," Angel said. He had led his comrades to a dimly lit chamber with one easily defended door in the lowest sub-basement of the Hyperion. Each of them held a bag or bundle of some kind, and Angel still kept a firm grip on the box Buffy had handed him. Twelve white candles, as yet unlit, marked out a rough circle about eight feet in diameter.  
  
"Well, the vibes around here seem okay, I guess," Lorne said. Then he shuddered theatrically. "Why does it always have to be so GLOOMY?"  
  
"In this case, we'd better stick to the darkness, at least in the beginning," Angel said, his gaze fixed on the center of the circle.  
  
Wesley, Fred, Gunn, and Lorne looked at each other, and then back at Angel. Their friend was still maintaining an unusual air of mystery regarding the whole operation.  
  
"You're awfully tight-lipped about this," Gunn complained.  
  
"Yes." Wes narrowed his eyes. "You're not telling us everything, are you?"  
  
Angel glanced up. "Believe me, I don't know everything."  
  
"This isn't—it isn't, well, dangerous, is it?" Fred said. "Wesley? Is what we're doing good, or bad? I mean, a prophecy should say that, shouldn't it?"  
  
"It should," Wes sighed. "But somehow, they hardly ever do. Anyway, this isn't exactly a prophecy—it's a prediction. We have to do it. We're going to do it. It's fated."  
  
"So, do we need weapons, or what?" Gunn asked.   
  
"Excellent point! Remember those Zoth demons I mentioned?" Lorne put in. "They've got particularly nasty tempers, and big poisonous fangs."  
  
"I think we would be forewarned if we were to need weapons," Wes said. "If danger results from this, it won't take the form of immediate physical threat."  
  
"Well, that's a big help," Gunn said.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
So many shades of green. Pale celadon, like barely nascent leaves; vivid emerald, like the expanse of a newly mown cricket pitch on a sunny day (now, why did he remember that?); deep, shadowy green, like the depths of a forest. An infinite array of hues washed over him like water, cool and restful, renewing and cleansing. Squinting, he held up a hand to shade his eyes. After so many years living as he had lived (he couldn't quite recall, just now, how that was—but it was not like this, not at all), the very intensity of color was almost a threat.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"However," Wes continued, "we had better go through the inventory for this rite, to be sure we have everything we need." He unfolded the paper he had consulted previously, and, clearing his throat, began. "Sixteen pomegranate seeds—we've got those…"   
  
As he spoke, he took a handful of translucent reddish seeds from a paper bag, bent down, and placed them within the circle of candles. As he read through the list, each person did the same with the items they had gathered.  
  
"…fourteen red rose petals…"  
  
"Got 'em!" Fred said.  
  
"Twelve basilisk scales—we have those; ten green bay leaves—easy enough; eight raven feathers…"  
  
"I just happened to have them on me," Lorne said, scattering the inky quills with a dramatic gesture.  
  
"Six juniper berries…" For some reason his companions couldn't quite grasp, Anger snickered as he placed the hard little berries, smelling faintly of gin, into the circle.  
  
"Four bear claws…"  
  
"I've got those—assuming they don't mean the pastry," Gunn said.  
  
"Three golden threads…"  
  
"Here!" Fred knelt and carefully arranged three long gleaming strands.  
  
"Two goblets of wine…"  
  
"Damn!" Angel exclaimed. "I got the cups, but I forgot the wine!" His brow creased. "Does it matter what kind?"  
  
"As long as it's fermented grapes, I don't suppose it does," Wes replied. "But…"  
  
"Wait, I'll be right back," Angel said, and sped from the room so rapidly he seemed to disappear in a puff of smoke.  
  
The others stood aimlessly in place, and shuffled their feet. The solemnity of the occasion began to seem oppressive.  
  
"Quite a wacky collection of arcane thingies," Lorne observed, breaking an uneasy silence. "At the rate we were going, I expected Wes to ask for a partridge in a pear tree any minute."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Greens, blues, browns and golds swirled against his consciousness, coalesced, and resolved into a scene that suddenly made sense.   
  
Well, a surreal kind of sense.  
  
He sat on a park bench quite near the muddy edge of a wide, placid pond, where a community of voluble mallards, teal ducks, trumpeter swans, black swans, and other waterfowl paddled in the sunlight. A swaying willow tree sheltered his seat, its boughs fluttering in the gentle breeze, and beneath his feet was a lawn as dense and closely trimmed as velvet. To the right, a path meandered off toward distant flowerbeds and graceful stands of trees. Above his head birds flickered noisily from branch to branch on business of their own, unaware of his attention.   
  
As he gazed upward, a brilliant ebony-and-sapphire butterfly zigzagged by, surprising him into a laugh of sheer surprise.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Suddenly Angel was in the room again, with two orange-labeled wine bottles under his arm.  
  
"Okay, ready," he said, twisting the stopper out of one bottle with a pop. "Wes—two cups of wine, right?"  
  
"Well, as written, the ritual actually SAYS 'goblets,' but I imagine that's because they didn't have paper cups in the fourth century. I think this will do nicely. Place one in the circle, and the other will be poured over the stone as we chant."  
  
Angel carefully poured two cups of wine, and placed one in the circle and one to the side.  
  
"Now, all we need is the 'Star of the Muses,' and we're ready," Wesley said, looking hard at Angel.   
  
"It's in the box," Angel said, avoiding his eye. "I, uh, got it before." He carefully unwrapped the mysterious box (whose side was even more mysteriously stamped 'Marty's Discount'), removed the lid, knelt, and poured the contents into the center of the circle. As he did so, Fred let out a gasp; the fabulous gem tumbled onto the floor, sparkling blue-white even in the meager light. Angel reached out and brushed some debris from the face of the stone.  
  
"What's all that dirt and stuff?" Gunn asked.   
  
"Dust," Angel replied. "Only dust."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
TBC 


	4. Chapter Four

Title: In Diamond Light  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?  
  
Setting: After "Chosen."  
  
In Diamond Light  
  
Part Four  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Buffy." Giles leaned his folded arms on the poolside bar, and looked seriously at his former charge. An oversized, coral-and-white striped beach umbrella shaded the countertop, reflecting an attractive blush onto her cheeks. The aqua-tiled, kidney-shaped pool itself stood empty in the blazing sun, but the city's electricity had been restored, and an assortment of drinkables chilled in a convenient refrigerator. "Do you plan to explain at all? Why have you brought us here?"  
  
Buffy looked away, sipping a strawberry margarita through a straw. She wore a light flower-printed sundress, with her hair done up in two ponytails, and he thought, with some exasperation, that she looked about twelve years old—yet she remained steadfastly elusive about the impetus for this visit.  
  
"I needed to see Angel," she said, enlightening him not at all. "Anyway, it worked out okay, didn't it? We've got money, clothes, and communications, right? When the others get here, we can research ourselves silly." Her hazel-green eyes glinted as she smiled and stretched. "Meanwhile, I'm gonna kick back. Is that all right with you?"  
  
"But WHY did you need to see him? Angel, I mean," he said, refusing to be distracted. "Is it something to do with Spike?" Aha, he thought, as she quickly looked away. Apparently, she still didn't trust him on the subject of Spike. "Buffy—I'm willing to admit I might have been wrong about Spike."  
  
"Gee—ya think?" Her tone was light, but her face hardened. "You mean, after he sacrifices everything he cared about, including his own existence, to save the world—including you—then you decide he might not be all bad?"  
  
"Buffy, I said I'm sorry."  
  
"No, you didn't." With a defiant slurp, she sucked the dregs of her drink through the straw.  
  
Giles sighed. "Very well, then—I'm very sorry I doubted you regarding Spike. You were right, and I was, ah, wrong. Will that do?"  
  
"Giles, this is not about me being right!" Buffy cried, slamming her glass down. "It's about HIM! Couldn't you see how he struggled? Couldn't you see how he fought to do what was right? Could any of the rest of us do what he did, of OUR own free will? How could you not believe in him?" Abruptly, she quieted, and looked down, twirling the straw between her fingers. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."  
  
"Are you still in love with him?" Giles couldn't imagine why he had popped out with such a question. Except that he wanted to know the answer quite badly.  
  
Instead of ripping up at him, Buffy answered softly. "I love him. I'll always love him. He'll always be a part of me." She put one hand over her heart, and he saw with helpless tenderness that her eyes were full of tears. "But it doesn't matter anymore, does it?"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Soarra, soarra, soarra," Wesley intoned. He, Angel, Fred, Lorne, and Gunn sat on the floor outside the circle of flickering candles; Wes held the tattered red leather volume, and the Lirin Stone stood unobtrusively before him.   
  
"Soarra, soarra, soarra," Angel, Fred, Lorne, and Gunn chanted in unison.  
  
"Tiimo, tiimo, tiimo," Wes went on.  
  
"Tiimo, tiimo, tiimo," the others dutifully repeated.  
  
"Uram, uram, uram."  
  
"Uram, uram, uram."  
  
"Vikka, vikka, vikka."  
  
"Vikka, vikka…"  
  
"Vikko—I mean vikka. Darn! Sorry!" Fred gasped. Then she asked, in a stage whisper, "Is that okay? We don't need to start over, do we?"  
  
"Man, I hope not, 'cause this is BORING," Gunn grumbled.  
  
"Shhh!" Wesley frowned sternly. "May we proceed, please?"  
  
"Yeah, only two more repetitions, guys, come on," Angels said.  
  
"Now, where was I?" Wes turned over a page. "Ahem. Watti, watti, watti."  
  
"Watti, watti, watti…"  
  
In the sputtering candlelight, they plodded on through the pre-ordained ritual of transformation.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
As he rose and emerged from beneath the willow fronds, the assorted water birds spotted him. But instead of fleeing as he approached the edge of the pond, they made a beeline for the shore where he stood and paddled in place, looking up expectantly, quacking and honking. Suddenly he knew just what they wanted.   
  
"Oops!" he said, automatically feeling his pockets (he wore jeans and nothing else) and holding out empty hands. "Sorry, chucks, I've nothing to give you."  
  
Finally, to avoid what he couldn't help feeling were the reproachful eyes of the assembled fowl, he decided to stroll about the place a bit, to see what was what, and turned up the path to his right.   
  
Enticing scents of earth and grass and spicy blossoms wafted on the breeze. He passed a border set with geraniums, marigolds, and larkspur, and their blazing crimson, gold, and cobalt almost seemed to sear his eyes. Sunlight washed down along his body, warm and caressing, and almost involuntarily he stretched his arms to the sides to take it all in.   
  
He sauntered for what felt like hours, but felt no weariness, thirst, or hunger. Lovely vistas met his gaze wherever he turned—here a small bridge crossed a burbling brook; there a mighty oak spread its venerable branches wide. Soon, to his surprise, the voices of men, women, and children, chatting, laughing, and playing, drifted toward him from somewhere in the distance as he walked. He even heard the sporadic barking of dogs, and a horse's neigh. The intonations were somehow achingly familiar, and, pondering this, he realized with a considerable start that the voices he heard were English. He felt an odd reluctance to seek out these people, who or whatever they might be, and made his mind up to put that off until later. For now he was content—indeed, more content than he could remember being in his entire existence—to wander alone through the serene beauty that surrounded him.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Yicksi, yicksi, yicksi."  
  
"Yicksi, yicksi, yicksi."  
  
"Zohra, zohra, zohra."  
  
"Zohra, zohra, zohra."  
  
"There!" Wesley let out a slow breath, as the others sagged into postures of relaxation. "That bit's done."  
  
"Wesley, honey, I'm sorry, but I really must say—this is the dullest ritual I've ever SEEN," Lorne complained. "Is the good part coming soon?"  
  
"I'm not precisely sure that there IS a good part, exactly," Wes replied. "After the next few steps, the Codex becomes rather vague, in point of fact."  
  
"What do you mean, vague?" Fred asked, her voice rising. "And, you know, I've been thinking—how do we know we DIDN'T conjure up, you know, a Zoth demon, or something bad? After all, we did make a few teensy little mistakes…"  
  
Wesley sighed. "Yes, the 21st Century mind isn't really cut out for extended chant-based rituals, I must say. But I don't think a minor slip-up here or there matters."  
  
"Well, I sure hope it doesn't, 'cause you're the one who said we didn't need weapons," Gunn pointed out.  
  
"No, no, I'm quite certain we won't. At any rate, let's move on, shall we?"  
  
"So what's next?" Angel said, staring inscrutably at the great diamond that lay in the center of the circle, winking in the candlelight.  
  
"Now I perform the final incantation, and dispense the wine. Like so: Aibocedefigohaii-jokoleminaoapoquri-satauuviwixayaza!" With that, he poured the contents of the second paper cup over the Lirin Stone, and sat back, staring at it expectantly.  
  
After a few moments, Lorne broke the silence, again. "You know, for sheer entertainment value, folks, I think I actually prefer watching floor wax dry. At least you get a nice, shiny…"  
  
But all at once, he was hurled to the floor, as a tremendous peal of thunder cracked violently right over their heads, and the surface beneath them swayed and shimmied. All except Angel clapped their hands over their ears and recoiled against the din. A whirlwind formed within the chamber, slowly picking up speed as it buffeted against the windowless walls. From the corners of the room, lightening crackled and struck, again and again, at the Lirin Stone, now shimmering with kaleidoscopic colors. The sonorous rumbling sounded again, and a swirl of blinding, blue-white light flared into being in the center of the circle.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Striding casually through a thicket of rose bushes, he saw that the lane he followed led over a small ridge, topped with a stand of graceful beeches, and disappeared down the other side. For some reason, the sight made him catch his breath.   
  
A not-unpleasant sense of anticipation welled within his breast. Could it be—was someone waiting for him?   
  
The closer he got to the little hill, the stronger the feeling became. Now he was certain that when he reached the other side, someone dear to him would be there to greet him. He quickened his pace.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
The floor bucked and trembled beneath them; they lay cowering, deafened by the wind and thunder, and made sightless by the dazzling glare. Only Angel had the strength to push himself up on his elbows, and even he could only look upon the uncanny whirlwind of brightness by shading his eyes.  
  
After a few disorienting, interminable minutes of sheer noise, the gusts seemed to assume a sort of rhythm—there came a great whoosh, tossing their hair and clothes, and then a pause, and then another whoosh, and another pause. It was like being sniffed by some gigantic animal. The shuddering of the floor became more regular, too; but, dismayingly, it seemed to be speeding up with unstoppable momentum to some kind of climax. There was another tremendous lightening strike to the center of the circle, causing Angel to flinch away.  
  
And then, shockingly, all sound and motion ceased.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
He proceeded toward the crest of the hill, utterly relaxed, his gaze lingering on the gentle beauties of the scene, when abruptly, he tumbled forward into blackness. He lost all sense of time and space, saw nothing but distant sparks of some kind, and heard nothing but a far-off gale.   
  
"Bloody hell," Spike thought, irritated. After all, he was just getting accustomed to the place.   
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
TBC 


	5. Chapter Five

Title: In Diamond Light  
  
Author: Ivytree  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.  
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?  
  
Setting: After "Chosen."  
  
In Diamond Light  
  
Part Five  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Holy smokes!" Fred exclaimed, wide-eyed. A naked man was about the last thing in the world she expected to see at the end of their ritual. Demons, yes; ghosts, yes; even butterflies. But this was obviously a man, and he certainly didn't look at all like a Zoth Demon; in fact, he looked damn good, even with platinum hair. Really. Only now he was starting to sit up, and he didn't have a stitch on… "Yipes!" she gasped, jumping up and turning her back.  
  
"Holy Greek statue, Batman," Lorne murmured.   
  
"Good lord!" Wesley said incredulously. "Isn't that—it looks like—but it can't be!"   
  
"Hey! What's going on around here?" Gunn said, rising to his feet after a glance at Fred. "Who are you, anyway?" He addressed the newcomer with exaggerated clarity. "Where are you from? Do you speak English?"  
  
The stranger looked at him, blue eyes glinting dangerously. "Of course I bloody speak English! And I'm from Hampstead, if you want to know," he snapped. Then, with a peculiarly knowing smirk, he turned to face Angel. "Hello, Peaches! Fancy meeting you here. Wherever here is, exactly."  
  
"You know this guy?" Gunn demanded.  
  
"Hello, Spike." Angel was the only one in the room who didn't seem particularly surprised. Deliberately, he stood and removed his leather coat, handing it to the new arrival. "Here. And don't call me that," he added with a flash of irritation.  
  
"Ooh! Trod on your dignity, have I?" Spike donned the coat, which hung on him like a muu-muu, got up, and brushed assorted leaves, berries, threads, and petals from his legs. "How do you think I feel? One minute I'm in bloody paradise, and the next I'm lying on the none-too-cleanly floor of what I assume is your cellar. It's a bit of a come down, I must say." He bent and picked something up from the floor, and thrust his closed hand into the coat pocket.  
  
Wesley suddenly found his voice. "Can it be that I am addressing William the Bloody?" he inquired.  
  
Spike looked pained. "Not so much of the 'bloody' nowadays, mate, all right? Just 'Spike' will do."  
  
"I thought your kind were proud of that sort of tag," Gunn said, his eyes narrowing. "I mean, you ARE a vampire, right?"  
  
"Well, yeah, but…"  
  
"He's got a soul now," Angel interrupted, his voice expressionless.   
  
Spike swung around to face him. "How did you know that?" he challenged. Then something in Angel's countenance seemed to give him the answer. "Oh… she told you."  
  
"She told me," Angel agreed. "She told me everything."  
  
There was a silence as the two vampires stared at each other.   
  
"Look," Angel said, at last, "There's no point in hanging around here all night. We're all tired from that incredibly boring ritual. Let's all go on back to the office and figure this out. Spike needs clothes, for one thing, and we could all use a break."  
  
"Sounds like a plan," Gunn said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Count me in."  
  
"Me, too," Fred added. "Those fourth century rituals really take it out of you, especially when you're not sure you're doing it right. I mean, you just get so tense, because anything could happen, and it could be your fault. Not that this is bad. At least, it was supposed to happen, so I guess it isn't."  
  
"Me, three," Lorne said. "Personally, I could use a hot tub and a classic martini—stirred, not shaken, with a nice twist of lemon. Then it's brain-wracking time." He turned to Spike. "You don't sing, by any chance, do you, handsome?"  
  
"Well…" Spike seemed disconcerted for the first time since his appearance.  
  
"Never mind, cocoanut cake; I'm sure we'll think of something."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Single file, the Angel Investigations team and their prophecied yet unexpected guest made their way through the Hyperion's narrow lower-level corridors and up winding stairs toward the surface.  
  
"So where are we going again?" Spike asked, padding along behind Angel.  
  
"Our new place," Fred answered. "This is our old place. We don't work here anymore. But I guess this is where she—you know, the Slayer—knew where to find Angel. So we all got sent here. Including you, I guess."  
  
With a crash, a large patch of plaster fell from the ceiling right behind Gunn, who brought up the rear. He didn't even jump.  
  
"So why'd you lot move out?" Spike pursued, "Structural damage from the latest Apocalypse, was it?"  
  
"You don't seem very surprised," Wesley observed.  
  
"I've seen a few Apocalypses," Spike said. "They're destructive to property, I'll say that. You're that Watcher, right?"  
  
"I was," Wes replied shortly.  
  
"Sorry about your mates," Spike said, his tone suddenly sober.  
  
Wesley stopped short, and stared at him. "How did you know about that?"  
  
"I heard."  
  
"It's not widely known." Wesley's voice grew sharp. "Who told you?"  
  
"Rupert told the Slayer, Slayer told me."  
  
"Rupert Giles? Giles is still alive?"  
  
"Well, he was all right last time I saw him. Escaped the big watcher-demise with a load of useful gen, too."  
  
"Did he really?" Wes said, suddenly thoughtful.  
  
Spike hesitated. "Thing is, I'm not sure how long ago it was, the last time I saw him, I mean."  
  
Angel looked back over his shoulder, his face enigmatic. "Sunnydale was destroyed about a week ago. It's gone, and the Hellmouth with it."  
  
"Stone me!" Now Spike stopped short. "What about—"  
  
"She said they all got away. Except Anya, and Wanda, and a couple of other names I didn't know."  
  
"Anya." Spike shoved his hands deep in the pockets of the leather coat he wore, and hunched his shoulders.  
  
"Was she a friend of yours?" Fred asked, her voice sympathetic.  
  
"Yeah. A friend."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Well." Spike let out a long breath. "I bet she went down fighting the good fight. So, they all got away, the Slayerettes?" His lips twisted in an unwilling smile. "Even Xander, eh?"  
  
"Yep," Angel replied, his eyes meeting Spike's almost involuntarily. "Even Xander."  
  
"Oh, well," Spike said, with resignation.  
  
"We're almost at the lobby," Fred chirped, interrupting the two vampires' moment of Xander-inspired unity. "But you guys are okay—it's after sunset."  
  
"So how do we get to this new doss of yours, keeping in mind I've got no togs on?"  
  
"That's okay," Angel said casually. "The limo's waiting."  
  
Spike stopped again, and stared at Angel with narrowing eyes. "'Limo'?"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Spike, Angel, Wesley, Fred, Lorne, and Gunn stood on the sidewalk as the uniformed chauffeur closed the glossy black door of the stretch limousine behind them, touched his cap to Angel, climbed into the front seat, and drove off.  
  
"This is your new place? Did you lot win the sweepstakes, or something?" Spike said, gazing upward at the steel and smoked glass entrance of the Wolfram & Hart building.  
  
Angel: "You could put it that way…"  
  
Fred: "In a manner of speaking…"  
  
Gunn: "We had some good luck…"  
  
Wesley: "More like a legacy…"  
  
Lorne: "Sort of a windfall…"  
  
They all spoke at once, and then halted, exchanging self-conscious looks.  
  
"Well, that explains everything," Spike said dryly.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Buffy curled up on a luxurious bed in the guest room of Kennedy's family mansion, clutching a ruffled pillow to her midriff, and squeezed her eyes shut. All she asked was a few moments of peace and quiet.  
  
Xander, Andrew (who considered himself one of them now, apparently), Robin Wood, and Faith (wearing a curious glow of happiness) had arrived with about fifteen young slayers in tow. Some of the surviving girls had gone home to their families, super-powers or no super-powers; and others had drifted off on errands of their own. And after all, who had a right to stop them? Buffy was just a Senior Girl now, as Faith liked to put it, not a general. But, after discussions with Giles, Willow, Kennedy, Xander, Robin, and even Andrew, a plan for the future seemed to be taking shape. And it was nothing like she had expected.   
  
Buffy had to admit that she surprised herself. Sure, she wasn't exactly introspection-girl, but she thought she knew what was important to her. Once, she had longed with all her heart for freedom from the burden fate had placed on her. Once she passionately believed that being a "normal" girl was the closest thing to heaven she could even dream of. But now that it was possible—now that the responsibility of her nature was hers to accept or deny, with utterly free will, secure in the knowledge that others could indeed take her place—now she had chosen, unreservedly, to embrace it.  
  
And at this moment she asked herself why. Was she that shallow? Did the prospect of NOT being "the One Girl" displease her so much, after all? Was she so self-centered that she couldn't bear to see anyone else in the spotlight?  
  
But maybe that was too harsh—at least, she hoped so. It could be that she just needed to give something back to the world she'd finally come to love again (the world Spike had loved so much, though he'd been robbed of the chance to enjoy it). And what else did she have to give but her experience? No one, not even Faith, knew as much about the pitfalls and hazards of being a slayer than she did. No one else could warn these new heroes—or train them. She couldn't let them go out there alone. She just couldn't.  
  
For that was the plan. They were going to pack up and head for the nearest Hellmouth (Cincinnati, wasn't it? she'd have to find an atlas somewhere), and start a school for slayers. Giles was in contact with a few remaining watchers, and he had apparently preserved a quantity of books and references and things, too. All of the Sunnydale survivors had something to offer—even Andrew, she supposed—and, amazingly, of them were eager to offer whatever they had.   
  
Suddenly her throat grew tight. Really, she never knew they all had such—such guts. Such devotion. For all these years, she'd underestimated everybody, even herself. It was one thing to be forced to protect humanity, by fate, or nature, or chance, or just proximity; but volunteering to do so, knowing what it meant, was something else again. That was something to be proud of.   
  
That was what Spike had saved them for.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Here," Angel said, offering an orange-labeled bottle.  
  
They stood together near the huge glass wall of Angel's office. Spike held out his champagne flute. "Thanks, Peaches."  
  
"Will you quit calling me that?" Angel looked pained, but poured the foaming pale gold wine into Spike's glass all the same.  
  
"Hey, you remembered—'The imprisoned laughter of the maidens of France'! My favorite!" Spike took a swallow. "This is a bit sentimental, isn't it, granddad?"  
  
"And you are NOT calling me that, either!" Angel said, ignoring the accusation of sentimentality and downing the contents of his own glass.   
  
Spike just grinned. "Thanks for all the hi-class gear, and all," he said. He wore new black designer jeans, a black silk shirt, and a remarkably expensive looking black suede jacket, which all fit perfectly. "Nice flat, too."  
  
"Well, it's a company apartment. You might as well stay, since I guess you're supposed to be here."  
  
Spike ran a hand over his hair. "I guess I am. Though it's the last thing I expected, to tell you the truth."  
  
"We weren't exactly expecting it, either; everything just fell into place. Wes says it's fate."  
  
Spike examined the bottom of his glass. "She—well, she brought me here?"  
  
"Well, she brought your remains, such as they were." Angel downed another glassful of champagne. "And she said if we should ever find a way, we should try to—to bring you back. Then the minute she left, we found a way."  
  
"So it's fate."  
  
"So it seems. Do you think you were really in paradise?" Angel asked almost diffidently. "What was it like?"  
  
"Sort of like Green Park," Spike mused. "In fact, it was exactly like Green Park. When she was well enough, I used to take Mother there Sundays after church. She liked to sit on a bench and feed the birds, and that. It was just the same, right down to the hungry swans."  
  
"Really? No bright white lights and heavenly choirs?"  
  
"Well, that wouldn't be paradise to me, would it?" Spike retorted. "I'd be bored rigid. Looks like it'll be a while before I find out anything more, anyway. I guess I'm supposed to help the hopeless, or give hope to the helpless, or whichever it is you do hereabouts."  
  
"It's kind of both, actually," Angel said. "Most of the time, anyway."  
  
They stood without speaking for a while, looking out at the darkening city.  
  
"So how's the soul working out for you?" Angel inquired politely, after a few minutes.  
  
"Stings a bit." Spike shrugged. "Guess I'll get used to it eventually."   
  
"It probably helps to start right out by saving the world," Angel said, his tone rather bitter.  
  
"It was a trip. You should have seen the colors!" Spike smiled. "No place to go but down after that, though, is there?"  
  
There was another silence.   
  
"She's gone off, then?" Spike said, finally. "Bag and baggage?"  
  
"Right." Angel gazed at the bubbles rising from the bottom of his glass.   
  
"Well, good for the Slayer." Spike stared straight ahead, unseeing, while the last rays of a dramatic, blood red sunset painted his face. "Let her go."   
  
Angel's voice grew hard. "And you're not going to follow her."  
  
"'Course not." Spike looked at him sharply. "And you're not either. Let her be normal. Let her be a girl. She can settle down somewhere with her sis, and do all the things she always wanted. No vamps, no demons, no bleeding Hellmouth to worry about. Live her life."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"It's what she deserves," Spike whispered into his glass.  
  
Outside, lights began to wink on across the vast Los Angeles cityscape of glass towers and skyscrapers. Most buildings were intact, but Spike could see that some, scorched and scarred, still bore the marks of the recent near-apocalypse.   
  
The illuminated windows seemed as tiny and fragile as fireflies against the measureless night. And, Spike recognized suddenly, each light represented at least one human life, struggling against the odds for some kind of peace and happiness.   
  
For the first time in over a century, he felt a strange unease swell under his breastbone. He knew what the feeling was, too, bugger it all. It was compassion.  
  
Spike knew why he was here, all right. He might not be the Chosen One, or a champion, or the darling of the Powers that Be, like the Old Man, but he was strong, resourceful, and experienced. (And he did still have the great mystical stone, which he fingered in his pocket.) Plain and simple, what it boiled down to was, he could help. And all at once there was nothing he wanted more.  
  
That was what Buffy had saved him for.  
  
END  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
"And ah! my bright companion, you and I must go  
  
Our ways, unfolding lonely glories, not our own,  
  
Nor from each other gathered, but an inward glow  
  
Breathed by the Lone One on the seeker lone.  
  
If for the heart's own sake we break the heart, we may  
  
When the last ruby drop dissolves in diamond light  
  
Meet in a deeper vesture in another day.  
  
Until that dawn, dear heart, good-night, good-night."  
  
George ("A. E.") Russell 


End file.
